


flowers for a grave

by madnessiseverything



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, POV Second Person, Softness, and yasha and the mighty nein, if very briefly, references to the lorenzo deal, spoilers for ep 46, yasha and flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:49:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessiseverything/pseuds/madnessiseverything
Summary: You are in a town and there is a funeral. The locals explain that their oldest farmer died recently, and will be buried now. You’re in a town and the locals carry bright plants, varying in colors like you haven’t thought possible. They place them on the farmer’s grave, speak of memories and loss and something tightens in your chest. You ask a woman nearby about the plants and she points to a field of muted red, smiles and tells you to take some. You leave the town with three red flowers.or the one where yasha collects flowers.





	flowers for a grave

**Author's Note:**

> so these words basically jumped out of my fingers once the episode was finished. i have so many emotions, and i hope this short oneshot brings at least some of them across. i love yasha a lot, guys. hope you enjoy my emotional word vomit <3

You are in a town and there is a funeral. The locals explain that their oldest farmer died recently, and will be buried now. You’re in a town and the locals carry bright plants, varying in colors like you haven’t thought possible. They place them on the farmer’s grave, speak of memories and loss and something tightens in your chest. You ask a woman nearby about the plants and she points to a field of muted red, smiles and tells you to take some. You leave the town with three red flowers.

 

You are in a forest, and the wounds on your arms burn as you slump against a tree. Your sword drops to the earth and you soon join it, sliding down the trunk and folding into a sitting position. Your hands glow, the bite in your leg closing up slowly, as you spot something blue. It’s small, smaller than the red ones growing old in your pocket. It makes you smile. You wipe bloodied fingers on your pants and reach out, careful, slow. You leave the forest with a small blue flower.

 

You are traveling alongside a road. The caravan is loud, music filling the air and hearts of those around you. You glance to the cart on your left, watch how the purple tiefling stretches and gives you a bright smile in return for your gaze. Up front there is a call for a break, the horses huffing. Blonde hair bouncing in two braids moves into your vision. “Yasha! Look at these!” Small hands present four flowers to you, bright yellow blending into pink. You cannot help but smile. “They’re for you! Molly said you started a book!”    
You leave the road with four yellow flowers, pressed between the pages of your flower book. 

 

You are with a new group. They are loud and chaotic, even more so than the circus. They butt heads and ask too many questions. You think this will be a nice change of pace. They fear you, at least a little, you know. You understand. The smaller lady, goblin features and shaking hands, shoves a bundle of flowers into your face, eyes filled with a fear you think is displaced. “Girls like flowers,” she mutters and asks you not to kill her. You smile at her and take the flowers with gratitude. They only add to your book. 

 

You are heading towards a swamp and it feels more like home than the endless green fields. Your group bickers and yeers and ask you so many questions. Your wings make them call you angel and by the gods, you do not deserve such a name. The wizard speaks to you in a language you thought you would never hear again and your heart lightens. This group will be good you think. The rogue gives you two white flowers, pats your arm gently as she uses you as shelter from the rain. “They bring luck,” she explains, reminds you of the braided flowers on her human’s head. You wonder if that is the reason the villagers gave them to the dead farmer. Your collection grows.

 

You are in a town filled with music and cheer and the monk gives the cleric a necklace out of flowers. They look so bright and you want to buy one too, put them into your book. You will get one tomorrow, you reason as you carry the bird child upstairs and leave your friends to drink and have fun. The bird asks stilted questions with your friends’ voices and you reply softly, slowly. You show her your flowers and she chirps excitedly, curling into you and falling into slumber not too long after. You cannot help but wonder how long she will stay. When you say goodbye the next morning, the bird’s arms around your waist, you feel the urge to give her a flower. And not long after, when night falls and arms restrain you as you watch your friends bleed and struggle; when you are shoved into a cage too small and familiar, you wish you had bought that necklace. 

 

You are in front of a grave. It does not bear flowers, snow hiding the earth, covering it up as if shielding everything from you. You shake, tears blurring your view of the only colorful thing in sight. Your chest feels cold, iron wrapped around your ribs and squeezing. Your hand drops a single blossom, wrinkled and muted as your knees hit the snow. You don’t know when the words leave you, you barely hear the soft inhales of the group. “It happened again.” Another grave, another death. It must be you, it has to be. Anger slowly crawls into your veins at the thought, burning you up from the inside. Again you are left without, left behind, left standing when the other dies. You want to scream. And you do. You feel something in your throat tear but you scream, scream. Damn the world for taking someone from you again. Damn you for cursing those that grow close to you. Damn it all. Your collection comes with you when you leave the others behind.

 

You are on a ship and your friends are gone. There is a sphere you last saw with the stowaway, sitting on the floor and your friends are nowhere to be seen. You wait. On the second day you spend hours searching every corner, begging for it to be a spell that might have made them smaller, anything that would tell you they were still here. On the third day you find a drawing of a flower in the cabin Jester sleeps in and feel your ribcage constrict your lungs. On day four you yell at the crew, watch them shrink beneath your gaze, and hide yourself in the room with the sphere. You have to believe they will return. On day five you think they might truly have left. Orly pats your shoulder and you want to scream again, want to throw the sphere against the wall and just barely stop yourself. You beg that they are not dead. Not again, you whisper, please, be alive. On day six they reappear and your heart cannot decide between relief and anger; fear still crawling into your veins as they all hide out in their rooms. You wonder if they left you for a reason. You curl up in your bed and sort through your flowers. You hope they didn’t mean to.

 

You are in the middle of the ocean and a storm roars around you. You know it’s him. The ship moves beneath your feet and his voice whispers, shows you things, makes your chest expand with warmth only to rip it away again. Your old name makes your skin crawl, her face makes your heart jump. You don’t know what he wants. “This storm was birthed only for you.” Lightning hits the ship and you can hear the crew and your friends screaming over the storm. You don’t know what to do, you fight and fight and hope you’re doing it right. When you rip out the lightning’s heart you fall, and still you don’t understand. Your friends help, the two clerics pushing their own warmth into your battered flesh afterwards with panicked worry and surprised smiles. They offer advice, ask you questions, and you want to answer. Your collection burns a hole into your bag. 

 

_ “I have so many flowers to bring to her.”  _   
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on my [cr tumblr](https://nottanothercritter.tumblr.com/) about all of this and so much more.


End file.
